


The Scratching of Snow

by daoinhe, distasty



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:08:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22532989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daoinhe/pseuds/daoinhe, https://archiveofourown.org/users/distasty/pseuds/distasty
Summary: Medic and Heavy arrive at the deserted base of Coldfront  a few days before the rest of the team only to find themselves snowed in. What should have been a few days of rest and experimentation has suddenly become much more serious.
Relationships: Heavy/Medic (Team Fortress 2)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 91





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collaboration between myself (daoinhe) and distasty. Hopefully, you will have as much fun reading as we've had writing this!

Day One  
Medic stared out the window at the bleak, white wasteland that was Coldfront. His lip curled in disdain, slim hips moving restlessly as he shifted from foot to foot. “It is snowing harder.” He directed the remark toward Heavy, the large man reclining on a gurney behind him. 

“Doktor.” Heavy tried to keep his voice calm, a difficult task when one’s abdomen is laid open. “It will be okay. Blizzard will pass, team will arrive. Administrator says three, maybe four more days.” Heavy sighed deeply. “We can close my belly now?” The question was said with all the patience of a long-suffering parent to a toddler.

Medic turned from the window, fighting the tenebrous urge to strangle his lover. He’d been given permission to arrive at the base a day before the rest of the team, giving him time to set up his clinic and work on his latest series of experiments without interruption. He was certain that he was on the edge of a breakthrough. There had to be a way to rewire the body’s adrenal system to allow for a controlled dump. With that controlled dump would come more speed, more tolerance for pain and increased clarity. The difficulty was convincing the adrenal medulla to produce the hormones on demand. 

Medic sighed. He glanced out the window one last time before returning to Heavy. “I just need to see one more thing, mein freund. Then I will close you up again.” Medic peered inside the Heavy’s abdominal cavity, pushing the bigger man’s intestines out of his way dispassionately. Heavy winced slightly. He would never get used to the feeling of his organs being shifted inside his body. It was somewhere between a tickle and a flutter, like butterflies in the stomach. Not exactly uncomfortable, but inherently wrong.

Plus, in the back of his mind, there was always the concern that someday Medic would just rip out something important and refuse to put it back.

Medic talked while he worked. “There, that is the adrenal gland.” He pointed to a reddish, triangular blob perched atop Heavy’s kidney. “If I can just get it to listen to me, Misha, we shall be fine. Think of it, all that power, all that energy, without Uber. You would be a beast!” He smiled, the mental image of his giant friend striding across the battlefield, slaying their enemies, unstoppable, delighted him. He glanced up into his friend’s arctic blue eyes and grinned. “And I would be a God. But, the stubborn thing will not do what I want. It needs to produce more epinephrine, release it on command. It is a lazy organ, only doing enough to get by.” Medic shook his head in disgust, a curl of dark hair flopping onto his forehead. “I should remove it. Maybe a few days in a jar would benefit it.”

Heavy frowned. “Doktor, we both need to rest. It was long drive here, and then surgery. I am hungry, tired. Maybe with food and sleep, gland will be more willing.” He tried to pacify the doctor, knowing that there was no stopping this train, but not wanting to have his glands removed and kept in a jar today. Maybe tomorrow, he thought, the man would have thought of a better way to accomplish this task. Preferably a way that did not involve amputation of organs.

Medic let out a long-suffering sigh and pulled back from his close inspection of the recalcitrant gland. He released the tension on the retractors, letting Heavy’s abdominal cavity fall closed. The red glow of the Medigun intensified slightly, knitting the flesh together again, leaving nothing behind, not even a scar. Medic exhaled, his mind drifting nostalgically. When he had been a surgeon without the Medigun technology, he had left his mark on hundreds of bodies. Every single one of his patients had only to look at their scarred exteriors and he would be recalled in their memories. It was like art, affecting the person even after the creator’s death, a form of immortality through science. But now, he left no signature behind. No way of knowing that he had been the one to close this wound, to heal that fracture. Nothing. The bodies of his teammates were blank slates as far as he was concerned, no outward signs of his presence anywhere on them. “Oh well,” he thought, “there will be time for scars later. I can always refuse to heal them for a little while, let them heal on their own. But that will come after this is finished.” Medic held out his hand and helped Heavy up from the gurney. 

“So, Misha, what would you like to eat?” He began to clean up his workspace, large hands moving without thinking, tidying the table and tools of his trade. “I have not looked inside the kitchen yet, but I am sure it has been well stocked prior to our arrival.”

Heavy patted his stomach, a subconscious gesture. He did not notice the small habit, but it caused Medic to smile delightedly. No scars, but the man still wanted to make certain that he was together correctly. Even without the scarification, his patients thought of him. It was in the way they moved sometimes, fingers subconsciously going to old wounds when they spoke to him, touching parts of their bodies that he had mended. It gave Medic a feeling of satisfaction. 

“… and steak maybe?” Heavy’s gruff voice brought him back to the present. He realized that he had missed a part of the conversation. That seemed to be happening more and more frequently. His mind would drift, his surroundings ignored while he contemplated more immediate problems. Often what they said was inconsequential anyway. Medic nodded his head. “Whatever you wish, mein bulle. I am not particular. But let us go to the kitchen and explore!”

Heavy slid off the gurney, landing on his feet with the ease born of years of practice. He walked out of the room, knowing the Doctor would follow behind. 

Medic, with a last loving polish of his scalpel, followed the larger man, wondering briefly if there was any correlation to all the times he’d followed Heavy across a battlefield. He was tired, he admitted to himself, and his feet ached. He hated Coldfront. No matter how many socks he wore, how many clothes he layered on, the chill seeped into his very bones. He longed for the dry heat of the desert. The humid warmth of the Colorado mountains. Anything but this freezing subarctic base. He glanced down the sterile white corridors of the base’s living quarters. There was not even any warmth in the décor. The sterile hallways would have thrilled him anywhere else. Here, they simply added to his sense of unease. 

Passing through the swinging doors into the kitchen, he found Misha already rummaging in the walk- in freezer. No coat, he noted. Not even long sleeves to show that the man ever got cold. He tried to quash down the jealousy and anger that he could feel rising in his throat like bile. He pasted a smile on his face as Misha came out of the freezer, arms laden down with his finds, slamming the door behind himself with his foot. “Look, Doctor!” He laid an armload of steak on the counter, each one making a dull thud as frozen lumps of flesh met hard steel. “Is good! Many steaks in there for us to eat!” Misha grinned warmly at him, beginning to unwrap two of the bricks of red meat from their packages and sitting the rest aside to thaw. 

Medic blinked and tried not to stare at the table. The packaged steaks were leaking blood across Misha’s large hands, the smell filling the air with the tang of copper. Medic grunted, feeling bile rise in his throat. The blood was everywhere. Medic blinked and looked again. The steaks were frozen, no blood leaking out, no copper tang of blood. He rubbed his eyes tentatively. “Misha, I think I will go and lie down.” He winced slightly as pain pierced through his skull. “I have a headache. Will you call me when dinner is ready?” 

Heavy looked at him for a moment, puzzlement written across his face. “Of course, Doctor. Take nap. You are pale.” Medic smiled tightly at Misha and left the room quickly, one hand still pressed to his pounding head.

***

Medic was a lot more on edge than was normal, Heavy thought, as he stood alone in the kitchen, listening to the sound of Medic's boots retreating deeper into the base. He hoped the nap helped him. If he was honest, he was quite irritated as well. He went with Medic officially as brawn to help the smaller man lift and assist in getting his lab and operating room in optimal condition. Normally, he enjoyed the company. He liked the many quirks of his bright, passionate doctor the majority of the time.

However, there were times when Ludwig’s behavior would try the very fabric of his patience. The man's fiery enthusiasm and intellect, which Heavy usually admired, had made the long journey tedious.

They had been enjoying a simple discussion on wildflowers of Siberia which had him nostalgic. His mistake had been when he drove the conversation to recollections of hunting with his little sisters for wild bee hives to bring honey back for his mother. How, even with the thick long shirts he donned, and even smoking the hive before attempting to take from it, an occasional bee would still manage to plant a stinger in his skin. He talked of one getting him on the brow where it swelled, and laughed as he remembered how much his sisters had teased him.

Medic grew quiet during the story, eyes distant as he continued to recall the candies and treats he and his family made if they managed to get a good harvest, when the doctor laughed. Heavy looked to Medic curiously, and that was the only invitation the smaller man needed. The talk of stings and reactions had been a simple spark that caught to an inferno. Four excruciatingly long hours passed. Four frantic hours of in-depth debate and excited detailed ideas for experiments and new possibilities. The man became a frenzy of planning with the intricacies quickly extending well over Heavy's head. Medic, in his enthrallment, hadn't noticed nor cared how boringly one-sided the conversation became, seemingly content to ramble on to his unwilling audience.

Heavy was not unlearned. He had attended University, enjoyed reading, albeit in Russian, and liked how many of Medic's conversations provided a challenge to both his English and his general understanding. However, he wasn't so sure that even Engineer could have withstood a four hour rant about the different zones of the adrenal glands and how difficult a task it was going to be to activate the correct one to create one of several long named hormones Heavy had no prior knowledge of. Medic was smart, he would never deny that, but he often found himself wondering how such a brilliant man lacked rudimentary social skills. 

The situation worsened when fluffy snow began to drift down. The remaining hour of the trip stretched to two as Heavy slowed the truck to compensate for snowfall, which meant another droning hour of conversation from his increasingly irritating companion. He kept his eye to the gravid sky, giving a silent, begging prayer that it would wait until they were off the road before it opened up, while Medic contently droned on without worry or care. Heavy had been white knuckled through the last, careful stretch of road that twisted up the mountain, weighing the consequence of imbittering his friend’s mood if it meant blessed silence.

In the end he remained strong, allowing Medic to vocally purge until finally their destination came into view. He had been relieved when they arrived, tired but thankful for the task of unloading to work some of the frustration out of himself. Medic helped as well, going back and forth with a steel dolly to carry various equipment for the infirmary. Heavy had finished with the last crate, placing it inside the loading bay and out of the elements, when he realised that, at some point, Medic had stopped coming for their things. Curious as to why, he had walked the silent corridors of the base, listening and following muted sounds of labour until he finally found the only room with light pouring out of a propped open door.

Heavy entered the room and Medic looked up from a tray of meticulously organized tools with a wolfish grin.

"There you are. We can finally get started with the experiment that I was discussing earlier," Medic said with genuine joy. "Please lay down."

He endured another two hours of having Medic poke and prod at him, hoping to relax Medic and sate the doctor's morbid curiosities. He knew the man found a certain amount of catharsis when he was elbow deep in his work. Instead, the opposite had occurred. When he could sense Medic growing angry and annoyed, Heavy had enough of it.

***

Nothing fixed a sour mood faster than a hot meal. This was fundamental wisdom that Heavy lived by. He enjoyed cooking, liking it more when he had others to share his labors with. What he was cooking tonight would not be up to par as he was too hungry to allow the meat to properly thaw. He had stuck their steaks in the oven on low to thaw while he prepared something to pair with it. 

He noted the heavy bags of flour, and thought briefly of bread. It would take far too long, Heavy thought. A few idle thoughts of attempting what Engineer referred to as biscuits formed before silently being abandoned. He watched the Texan make them several times, but decided he lacked the confidence to make them himself. No matter. He hummed a nameless tune while rooting deeper around the deep pantry, eyeing jars and cans as he went. When he finally eyed a good replacement for bread, he silently gave a satisfied nod. 

He grabbed three potatoes from a thick burlap sack, taking them to the sink. He was sure that even with less than perfect steaks, he could still create a meal worthy enough to soften his trying day. 

****

He hadn't needed to call on Medic in the end, the odor of cooking meat and roasted potatoes had done the task for him. Medic had wandered into the kitchen clumsily, body still burdened with sleep. He rubbed his face behind his glasses, knocking them askew before heavily sitting on a stool. 

Heavy smiled at the rumpled, disoriented man. 

"Feeling better?"

He made a non committal grunt which had the bigger man chuckling as he set a loaded plate of fragrant food in front of him. Medic stared at what he had been presented blandly as Heavy made his own. 

He had outdone himself, Heavy thought, putting a fork into a quartered potato. It made a satisfying crispy sound as the tongs sank in, making his mouth water. The crunch and flavor of butter making the flesh of the potato melt in his mouth. It didn't matter that the meat was overly tough with potato this good he decided. Heavy, so enamored with his meal, hadn't noticed Medic quietly staring at him as he ate

***  
Medic wasn’t certain what to think. Heavy was sitting at the table, shoveling potatoes into his mouth as if there was about to be a shortage and the adrenal question remained unanswered. Plus, Medic thought, cutting his potato into small cubes, his feet were now throbbing in time with his head. The two opposing body parts seemed determined to make everything in the middle suffer. 

Medic sighed and got up from the table, staring out the window. The snow, what he could see of it in the halogen light over the base’s back door, was getting deeper. He wondered if they would be trapped inside and, reaching for the door’s knob, twisted it to see which way it opened. He cursed when the door, under the pressure of snow and wind from outside swung open a good foot further than the inch he’d planned on opening it. Snow swirled inside on gusts of cold wind, bringing an arctic chill to the room. Medic cursed and shoved at the door, but the snow was now packed into the jam, making it impossible to close. 

Medic uttered a string of vulgar Latin as Heavy pushed him aside and, toeing the snow out of the jamb, slammed the door firmly. Heavy glanced over at him, placid as a cow chewing cud. “What did Doctor say?” 

Medic bit down on his tongue, hard. The urge to translate the phrases, phrases that questioned both the legitimacy and species of Heavy’s parents, was almost overwhelming. Medic suddenly raised his hand to his forehead, massaging his temples. Where was this anger coming from? Misha was his friend, his lover, he reminded himself. Slowly, he put a hand on the larger man’s forearm, almost tentatively. When Heavy did not draw back, only cast him a puzzled look, Medic sighed in relief. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what overcame me.” He went back to the table and sat down. “I just feel so trapped here. I don’t understand it, Misha. This is where I wanted to be, and you are who I wanted to be here with, but this day…” he paused, trying to put his thoughts into some semblance of order. “It has been overwhelming. And this headache. I feel like my thoughts are being swirled about in my head with a stick.” He returned to picking at the food on his plate, knowing that he needed to eat, but having no appetite. “And my feet are cold.”

Medic cringed inside. He sounded so whiny, so helpless. If it were him sitting on the other side of the table, he would, as Engie would say, ‘smack some sense’ into the whiny man picking at perfectly good food like a Spy. No, he amended, he would not. He would find a solution to the problem, a hot bath, heated socks, something. He glanced over at Misha, unable to understand why the man remained so loyal. He’d only ever been a thorn in the bigger man’s side, without the physical stamina or the fighting prowess he’d witnessed so many times from the other. 

Medic grunted, too lost in his thoughts to notice Heavy’s look of concern deepening. When at last the deep voice rumbled from the other side of the table, it took three tries and a tap on the hand to regain his attention. “What is Doktor thinking of?” 

Misha actually looked worried. Medic tilted his head to the side, absently rubbing at his cheekbone with one hand, setting his glasses askew. “I’m so sorry, mein freund. I was thinking about that gland again.” Medic lied glibly, not wanting to alert the other man to the state of confusion and irritation he was facing. The team already thought he was mad, it would never do to let them know how mad he actually was. 

Feeling unable to maintain the conversation any longer, Medic pushed back his chair and stood. Picking up his plate and balancing it in one hand, he looked at Heavy. “I am going to the lab. Don’t worry, I will eat while I work.” He fled the room, leaving Heavy to deal with the mess of dinner.

In the lab, Medic put the offending plate on a countertop and began researching. He could stay here for hours, days if need be, he thought. Jotting notes into a lined notebook, he felt that he might be making some headway into the adrenal problem. Surely, if one could only figure out what triggered the fight or flight reaction, then harness that, the problem would be solved. So, step one was deciding what hormone was released into the body when it was shocked. After that, it should be a simple thing to isolate that hormone and introduce it into the subject’s body at will, triggering… Something was dripping. The noise was not loud, but it was pervasive. Medic frowned. How could he ever hope to work with this distraction. 

Standing, he began to search the room. Where was that drip coming from? He checked the faucets, they all seemed to be fine, then, taking his stethoscope, he began listening to the walls. If it was a busted pipe, they surely did not want to have to deal with the mess that would make. Better to turn off the water and deal with it when the snow cleared. Medic began slowly going from to wall, sliding his stethoscope along, searching for the source of the noise. He was on the third wall when he looked up and saw Heavy standing in the doorway, watching him. 

The look on the bigger man’s face told him everything that he needed to know. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window just then. His hair was mussed up and there were cobwebs in it from looking under the sinks. He was sliding a stethoscope down a wall, listening so intently that he looked almost maniacal. Quickly, Medic straightened and put the stethoscope behind his back. Then, he realized how that must look to his friend and pulled it back out again. He sighed. “I was listening for drips.” He was not sure how exactly to explain this, and given the return of his headache, that was the best he could do for the moment.

When the statement was met with silence, he turned away from Heavy, shoulders squared, back ramrod straight. “I think that I will go to bed now. It’s enough for one day.” Not looking over his shoulder, he walked out of the lab. 

***

Heavy watched Medic's deflated frame retreating with worry in his eyes. He was not acting like himself. He was used to overwhelming pride and an unparalleled enthusiasm in his lover. It was like watching a stranger when he saw Ludwig struggle with what must have been embarrassment. He wasn't sure if he had ever seen Medic ashamed before, and it was deeply disquieting. He walked into the middle of the infirmary and stilled, holding his breath, listening hard for what had distressed his doctor.

There was nothing. 

He pondered for a moment, eyes turning to the walls curiously. He walked towards the cold, silent wall, hand fluttering over painted sheetrock. He gave a timid knock, noting hollowness beneath his knuckles before he leaned an ear to its cold surface. Quieting his breath, he heard a deep, low hum within. 

The broiler, perhaps? Had that been what Medic heard?

He looked to the stoic radiator in the corner of the room, white and clean. A hand hovered over it for a careful moment before digits touched its steel ribs curiously. He huffed out a sound of disagreement at the frigid metal before going to turn the radiator on. 

He hadn't noticed it was cold.

Between the warming fumes of the medigun from the impromptu surgery, the activity of moving boxes, as well as the pleasant heat of the oven and stove when he had cooked, he hadn't noticed. He grimaced at their failure to properly heat the rooms of the base. 

His thoughts drifted to his aging mother, how, as her years grew in number, the more cranky and susceptible to the cold winters she became. He thinks of his handsome doctor and his silver kissed hair and can't help but sadly smile. 

Neither of them were young men, but he often forgot how much a decade and a handful of years really made a difference. But then, the giant had radiated heat like a furnace most of his life. He thought to the harsh Siberian winters, where his mother and sisters would huddle around him under the largest quilt they had, the only thing they owned that could completely cover his whole frame and then some, giggling and laughing as they told stories and sang songs while the girls fought for the right to hold his very large, warm hands. The memory left a dull pang of home-sickness that lingered as his thoughts returned to Medic. 

Good company was life-saving during the long, cruel winter, and perhaps that was what his doctor was needing. 

***

He found Medic fussing with the contents of one of the many trunks he had earlier brought to his room for him. So absorbed was he in his toiling that he hadn't noticed Heavy until he sat loudly upon the room's sizable bed. Medic turned, startled by the noise of the springs compressing under Heavy's mass. Realising the source of the noise, the fearful look on his doctor's face melted to annoyance. 

"You scared me. "

Heavy smiled as he bent forward.

"Doktor is very distracted. Not usually able to come and go unseen. Why is Doktor not resting?"

Medic frowned deeply at his question, irritation and anger in his voice. 

"I am trying to find my wool socks. This place is freezing." 

Heavy reached out a large hand in invitation.

"Come." 

Medic looked to his huge palm for a hesitant moment before he uttered a shallow sigh. He softly rested his hand on Heavy's for a brief moment before it was engulfed. Heavy swore quietly at how horribly cold the hand in his own was. It was little wonder Medic wasn't shivering. He pulled Medic against himself and felt the older man tense.

"You are very cold, Doktor." It was whispered low, not necessarily suggestive, but somehow lacking innocence. "I should warm you."

Medic's hands drifted up to Heavy's massive neck, letting out a small, scoffing laugh from his nose. 

"I bet you could, Misha."

Hearing his name made Heavy smile. He rested his chin on Medic's head before he began untucking the white dress shirt from pants. A large hand reached up and under, tickling chilled skin. Heavy rumbled out a low, quiet sound of agreement as Medic's skin prickled to his touch. He would like nothing more than to slowly peel the clothing from Medic's form, kissing and touching him until he was a heated, wanton, mess underneath him. The thought made his blood pool and his heart jump, but he firmly told himself no. His eyes drifted, falling on the agape door to a simple bathroom with a large porcelain tub. It had been a very long day. They had awakened before daylight, driving until the day's early winter sunset. He himself had the stench of travel and cooking on him and could stand a wash, and Medic, having only hours ago been elbow deep inside his chest, certainly was no better off.

He compromised with his desire, giving Medic a hard squeeze before he kissed the top of his hair.

"Both of us are tired and dirty. Clean first, da?"

Medic nodded into him, and Heavy laughed a little at his love's reluctance to let his neck go. Apart, he craned, giving the smaller man a chaste kiss of promise on his lightly frowning lip. "Sit. Let me help you."

The bed shifted further when Medic sat heavily next to him. He bent down, carefully grabbing a shoe clad foot, dragging it toward his lap as Medic shifted to accommodate the gesture. Heavy was careful in its removal, setting the tall leather boots neatly to the ground before deftly removing a surprisingly damp sock from his foot. Immediately he dropped it to the ground and ran thumbs deeply along the arch in methodical strokes. Medic's foot felt like ice. He wondered if it hurt him to be this cold. The noise Medic made in response to Heavy's attention sounded quite pained, but there was no resistance, so he doubted the sound was negative.

He touched and rubbed his foot until it was no longer uncomfortably cold, and when he set it carefully down on the bed and reached for his other foot, Medic all but forced it into his hand. Heavy smiled at the enthusiasm, quickly removing the remaining boot so he could give the other foot his attention.

When both are warm, Heavy stood, helping Medic up with him. 

"Go first."

Heavy gave another small kiss, but this time, there was a faint smile trying to curl on his lover's tired lips when he pulled from it. He watched Medic walk to the bathroom, briefly admiring the pull of white cotton on his wide shoulders when his form bowed to turn the tap. While waiting for the water to heat, he disrobed, giving the Russian more bare flesh to enjoy. Another ripple of interest pulsed and Heavy shook his head. There would be time for that later. Heavy turned to fiddle with the radiator, turning the valve to full, knowing it would take a while before it would heat the small room with hopes it would be heated before Medic finished bathing. He then wandered to the trunk, gingerly picking through the contents where he sorted them to be stowed away properly.

He listened to the door of the bathroom closing behind him, followed by a screech of steel as the water diverted to the shower, and shortly after, a long drawn out swear from Medic when he undoubtedly went to stand under the stream. It took a quarter of an hour of searching through Medic’s things for Heavy to finally find what he was hunting for. Clean but musty thermal wear, along with long socks of varying thickness that had all been in the very bottom of the trunk, buried and forgotten in Medic's closet in excess of a year. The both of them had been assigned to a variety of sweltering and dry tours across several American deserts for a little over 3 years now with sweaters and warm clothes not being necessary.

Heavy filled with a hopeful nervousness that his own winter gear survived storage as immaculately as Medic's. Living in the woods back home, storage was often cruel to clothing. Many small, irritating things longed to consume and ruin furs and wool in stale darkness. He unfolds and sets out out some of Medic's heavier clothing for him to slip on after his shower while hibernating memories of his mother and her nagging voice cut through him. He remembers the smell of green, tender grass, the sounds of insects and birdsong among the creak of pines. His mother had instructed both him and his sisters in their work. They were to set their heavy coats, blankets, and thick clothing out to be washed or aired out, and he remembered heaving out what felt like miles of heavy fabric to purify and soak in the sun every mid-summer. A slew of chores to be performed in the short, precious window of weather where none of the heavy linens and coats were necessary. They would check for beetles and cocoons alike, repair and clean invaluable items that would ensure their survival in the cruel, upcoming winter, all of them sweating but happy in the summer heat. 

He felt awkwardly ashamed, the phantom voice of his mother scolding him, as he had not even thought to make sure he kept up necessary habits he had done since boyhood. The oppressive year round heat made thoughts of winter far removed, but it still felt to him like a weak excuse. Nostalgia and home-sickness encased his heart so painfully that he felt the instinctive need to put a hand to his chest as if it would quell it. He blamed the tall pines and the snow for his thoughts. It had been over four years since he had been on a mountain, let alone seen snow. He looked to Medic's luggage, thinking of his own. When he had unpacked his things, he would write to his family. It would undoubtedly be a long while before they would have the luxury of deliveries, let alone carrier service due to the snow, but still, he knew it would stave off the creeping melancholy of the remoteness of their station.

He woke from his thoughts when the door of the bathroom opened, billowing a warm, wet cloud of steam into the cold room. Medic was unashamedly nude as he entered, roughly toweling off his head. He removed the terry-cloth, his hair standing on end and his cheeks looking warm and pink from his shower. He looked cute, Heavy thought, the color making him seem younger, almost boyish. Heavy flushed himself when a rare, genuine smile flooded his face as he saw the result of Heavy's labour. He watched the doctor reach out for a thick pair of socks, admiring the shift of muscles in his strong shoulders, and it made the sadness over Heavy's heart immediately lift.

He had a stunningly beautiful man by his side, directing a beaming happiness that was seldom seen by others solely towards him. It was infectious, and made it so damn hard to resist taking his pretty doctor over to the bed and doing lewd, filthy things to him. He shook his head as he swallowed his desires softly, which warmed him to his core as he stood to take his turn in the bathroom.

He found himself happy and thankful to have such handsome company to spend the winter with. Things would be okay.


	2. Day Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heavy and Medic, stranded in the deserted base of Coldfront, have to deal with a blizzard and the lack of heat. Unfortunately, Medic also has to deal with a past that haunts him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a collaboration between myself and Distasty, remember guys, we both adore comments and kudos!

In the dream, he was a young boy again, perhaps five or six, in the darkness of a small closet. He could hear his father’s low voice through the door. The man was a beast, the terror of his childhood self. He didn’t know what he’d done this time to be locked in the dark, but he knew that he wasn’t alone. He could hear the faint scritch scritch of claws on wood. The boy he was moaned in terror, then began to weep. Through the door, his father exhorted him to grow up, to be a man. He felt around blindly, then pulled close to the door, pounding on it, begging to be let out. Not that it would do any good. His father was a hard man, one of the notorious Sturmabteilung, also known as “Brown Shirts.” The only way the man would open the door was when the boy calmed down and cried himself out. The boy froze as the rat, long and brown and the size of a small cat, came closer. Soft fur brushed against the boy's ankle, causing him to scream in terror. Did his father know the rat was in there? Who knew. Would it have mattered to the old bastard? Probably not. The rat circled closer to the child he had been, sniffing at bare ankles and tender legs. The boy kicked out at it, missing in the darkness of the closet and causing the rat to rear up on hind legs and hiss menacingly. The child backed into a corner and cowered, hands wrapped around his small shell like ears. The rat came closer, then closer still, then darting in, nipped at an ankle. The boy’s scream was piercing as he flailed about at the unseen assailant. 

Medic remembered this only too well. He had thought there was a monster in the closet with him, some sort of fairy tale imp or kobold. He groaned in terror, tossing in his sleep. 

The rat darted closer, starving like everything in Germany at the time, and nipped at the child again. The boy pushed himself up against the wall, then brought a small bare foot down, over and over, seeking to drive the creature off. The rat backed up and hissed, then climbed up the wall and leapt, landing on the back of the child’s neck, teeth sinking deep into the flesh of one ear. The boy’s hands came up, grabbing it and flinging it against the far wall. It hit hard and fell, stunned for a moment. The boy zeroed in on the noise, then stomped down, screaming in terror as his foot came down hard on the rat’s body. In response to the pain, it curled around his foot, sinking teeth and claws deep. 

He remembered the sheer pain and the terror, the way he had stomped and screamed, the feel of hot blood splashing up his bare calves and onto his face. He remembered collapsing finally, in an exhausted heap, among the blood and viscera, small shoulders quaking as he sobbed himself to sleep. 

Medic woke with a start, hands automatically going to his feet. There was nothing there, nothing but the fine white lines of ancient scars. He breathed out through his nose, trying to calm his racing heart. Misha’s warmth was a deep pool around him, and as he tried to relax back into it, the bigger man’s arm wrapped around his waist as he nuzzled sleepily at his neck. 

“у тебя все нормально?” 

Medic translated the phrase automatically. “Are you okay?” Heavy had asked, even in his sleep thinking of Medic’s welfare. Medic flinched slightly, feeling bereft. What had he ever done to repay the bigger man’s loyalty, his love? “I am fine.” He murmured, one hand wrapping around Heavy’s. He yawned, then cuddled in closer, eyes drifting shut as he luxuriated in the warmth the two had generated under the blankets. Suddenly, from the corner of the room, scritch scritch, the sound of claws. Medic bolted upright, eyes wide in the faint glow of the nightlight he insisted on having. He’d told Heavy that it was to prevent him from bumping into things if called from his bed by an emergency, ashamed to let the Russian giant know that he feared the darkness. He peered around frantically as Misha, disturbed by his movements, stirred behind him. 

“What is it?” His bass voice rumbled in the darkness. “Something scared Doctor?” He looked around the room, eyes wide in the gloom as he searched for whatever it was.

Medic laid a hand on his arm. “It was a dream, Misha. A nightmare. Go back to sleep, there is nothing here that you can fight.” Medic wished there was such an easy solution to the problem. He lay down, pulling Misha down with him. “Let us both go back to sleep.” He lay still as the big Russian curled down against him, one arm drawing him closer, the other draping protectively over him. Medic lay quiet in the dimness, listening as the other man’s breathing calmed, settled into the slow rhythm of sleep. He tried to ignore the scratching coming from the walls. He told himself, over and over that he was no longer a child, that Misha would not let the rats hurt him. He tried to believe it, but the child deep inside him screamed that it was not true. The child screamed that, if his father let the rats have him, why wouldn’t Misha do the same. “Because, he is not my father.” He whispered to himself, voice barely a sigh. “He is a kind man, not a monster.” He did not know when, but eventually he drifted back to sleep, this time dreamless.  
***  
Medic woke for the second time when the false dawn was lighting the snow. The air had that peculiar bluish quality that he loved. Slipping out from under Misha’s arm, he slid out of the bed, cursing to himself as his feet hit the cold floor. Something had to be wrong, he thought to himself, as his breath puffed out in a cloud of white. He reached for the waterglass on the bedside table and, tilting it, was puzzled when nothing came out. Poking a finger into the half full glass, he hissed as he touched ice. Grabbing his robe from the chair by the bed, he struggled into it, shivering as the chill fabric wrapped around his frame. 

Medic slid his feet into his slippers and trudged to the bathroom, bladder full to bursting. He watched, fascinated, as his urine steamed in the cold air on it’s way to the toilet. This couldn’t be right. Shuffling out of the bathroom and to the thermostat on the wall, he checked the temperature. It was set at 75, but the built in thermometer was showing a temperature of 33 degrees. Medic cursed and banged his fist into the thermometer. Across the room, Misha stirred sleepily. 

“What is it?” He sat up, fists rubbing at his eyes. “Why so cold in here?” 

Medic bit back the sharp reply he wanted to make. “I’m not sure. It would appear that the heat is out. Go back to sleep, I will check on it.”

Although trekking to the basement in the freezing cold was the last thing that he wanted to do, Medic felt obligated to make the offer. He sighed as Misha flopped back down into the nest of blankets, eyes closing. The man was impossible to wake. Medic frowned. One would think that a mercenary would have honed senses, be ready and alert at a moment’s notice. But not Misha. The big Russian had to be pried out of bed if he was not ready to get up. And obviously he was not ready yet. 

Medic walked out into the cold hallway, letting the door slam behind him. His mood, already sour, turned even worse as he glanced around himself. The base was silent as a tomb. He shuffled down the hallway, his slippers making a shwoosh shwoosh noise on the hard concrete flooring. There was no need to be quiet, he knew, no one to hear him coming, but the noise was irritating to his senses, making his teeth grind together. He grunted as he came to the stairs leading to the basement. It was dark down there. His hand reached around the corner, feeling for the lightswitch. Finding it, he flipped it on, then off again and back on. Nothing happened. He stood at the top of the steps, staring into the pitch black that pooled three steps down. 

In his mind, Medic knew that he only had to go to the bottom of the stairs, perhaps fifteen steps, and find another bulb. “I am a grown man.” He whispered the words out loud. “Not a verdammt kind.” And still, he could not force himself to go down those steps. He was a paid mercenary, who killed and was killed repeatedly, every day. Yet he vacillated at the top of the stairs like a frightened child, eyes repeatedly looking at and then shifting away from the darkness. 

Medic tentatively placed one slippered foot on the second step, then paused. His head cocked to the side as he listened. Nothing. He brought the other foot down hesitantly, watching the inky shadows as they seemed to reach for his feet. Tentatively, he held his foot out over the gulf, then drew it back. There, that noise! From the darkness below, he heard the scritch scritch of tiny claws on concrete.  
Medic ran. 

***

Heavy awoke grumpily to what felt like a sharp mass of knees and elbows at his lower and mid back. He craned his head to the bright sunlight spilling only out of half the window and groaned. Both of them had overslept which was pointedly unlike Medic. He rolled to both face the man in the bed with him and to dislodge his lover’s limbs from his now tender spine. 

Slowly he came to realise Medic was not in the state of dress he had gone to bed in. He looked at his puffy terry cloth robe he sometimes used before propriety forced his hand to don proper clothing. He lifted the quilt to assess the rest of his partner and regretted it. Bitter cold rushed in, feeling like sheets of ice being scraped down his body. A shivering discomfort that had not been worth the knowledge that Medic also had on his house slippers. 

He looked to the radiator and frowned, knowing he had turned it to full before the both of them had settled for the night. It was obvious something had gone wrong. 

Eyes shifted to the window again, what he could make of the sky was still overcast, but not looking ladened with snow. He sat up, his bare skin prickling. He hadn't unpacked any of his clothing, leaving the bulk of his things in the cargo bay. He grimaced at the irritating knowledge that he’d have to find his things, in yesterday’s clothing, with little to keep him warm. He ran a careful hand through Medic's hair to rouse him. 

"Doktor. Is time to get up." Blue eyes stirred open where they glassily looked towards the giant. "Something is wrong. Radiator might be broken.” Medic grumbled and buried his face into the warmth of Heavy's side, eliciting a single pearl of laughter from Heavy's depths. "Come. Is late. Not much sun left."

Medic sat up groggily before Heavy all but crawled over him to stand. His hulking mass shivered as he bent to collect his unsuitable clothing from the floor. He dressed quickly, including his shoes, before taking the quilt off the bed, putting it around his massive shoulders. It looked comical, but would serve him well enough until he could find his warm clothing. 

He walked into the bathroom and anxiety curled at the sight of a thin sheet of ice forming in the toilet. Large hands shot to the taps, letting out a relieved sigh when both passed water. He left them dripping just in case, having spent too many winters with basic plumbing to want to have to try and fix an ice filled pipe. He looked back to the toilet, flushing it so he could use his booted foot to crack the thin layer of ice within. He relieved himself, and when finished, he washed his hands, hating the feel of the frigid water on his already cold flesh. 

"We should check other radiators." He said loudly.

"It's the boiler," Medic uttered back tiredly. "It is not running."

Heavy frowned. "Doktor looked this morning. Can it be fixed?" The question made Medic visibly tense. "What is wrong?" 

"I...could not go check."

Heavy's brow perked. He could see the discomfort plainly on his face and decided to not press the issue. He cracked his neck, and walked to the door, gripping the icy knob before turning it. "Could Doktor check rooms for fireplace? Would be good to find if boiler cannot be fixed. I will go get warm clothes while Doktor looks, then we both check the boiler."

He watched Medic nod, and heard the man shift off the bed behind him as he left. 

***

Heavy was too cold to be bothered to bring the bulky crate of clothing through the frigid base to a room he didn’t yet know if he would be staying in, and opted to gut the box of contents of his personal items neatly on the cargo bay floor. It was the fastest way to warmth, and Heavy’s deepest desire was to be encased in thick, warm cloth that wasn’t draped over his shoulder like an old woman’s shawl.Half way down the crate, a wave of relief ran through him when he finally felt the scratch of wool on his reaching fingers and happily pulled out the long sleeve of well loved thermal wear. He continued like this, unashamedly undressing and redressing as missing pieces of warm clothing were produced with his mood lifting as each garment rendered the cold further away from terrible and closer to tolerable. 

He was pulling on another musty sweater over long-sleeved flannel when Medic returned from his explorations. He explained that there was a large wood burning fireplace in a large common room and another in a conference room. Heavy had nodded, feeling comforted by the news. If it came to it, both of them could temporarily relocate to spend their nights fireside. He stood, leaving the carnage of his belongings on the frigid floor, deciding there were far more important tasks to attend to with the brief amount of winter sun already halfway spent.

"Where is boiler?" asked Heavy and again Medic tensed. His large, warm hand went to grasp and cup Medic's. "Come. Let's go look together."

***

Medic held his hand the whole way. He was led down and through the base, stopping at a familiar closed door adjacent to the kitchen. He opened it to darkness and turned to look at Heavy with nervousness in his eyes. 

“The light is out.” Medic uttered with unease, and immediately Heavy understood the problem.

He knew about his doctor’s peculiarities with darkness, particularly in closed places. He knew the man tried his best to keep it hidden and brushed it off as something that didn’t exist when he was forced to deal with it. Heavy never questioned it or pressed the matter. It was an obvious soft wound his partner took great pains to deny, and a part of him didn’t want to know what could have possibly have made such a proud and brazen man scared of such a thing. Heavy was in the gulag long enough to personally know many horrible things happened in darkness, and could only imagine the kind of faces the monsters in Medic’s mind contained. 

He rolled his shoulders, and looked to the kitchen for a moment before focusing on the light trembling of the small hand he held. 

“Doktor, could you please start oven in the kitchen? I will look. Try and fix light. Will make something nice to eat after I am finished.” He noticed the relief ripple through the tension of Medic’s face before he turned to the stairs, feeling happy.

He descended into blackness, the air becoming colder and smelling stale and subtly of earth the closer he got to the bottom. Halfway down the stairs, Heavy’s eyes were wide open and seeing nothing, understanding completely why Medic had been unable to continue. Even without fear of darkness, he found the dank, cold room unpleasant. Eventually a careful foot reached concrete, and he stood, just able to see from the corner of his eye the faintest hint of light at a wall trying to breach darkness. Heavy sat on the last step of the stairs, hands going to his eyes to push against them. He counted slowly to sixty before removing them again and grinned at the faint outlines of shelves and the hulking shape of what must be the boiler.

He walked to the wall first, curious about the light, realizing it was high slitted windows darkened from being buried in snow. That was good. If it came to it, and hopefully it didn’t, he could always bring more light to the room if he cleared that away. He looked up towards the dim glint of glass of a central naked bulb in the middle of the room before walking towards it. Large deft fingers unscrewed it, taking the light close to his ear before he shook it, hearing bits of metal tink inside.

He tentatively glanced at darkened cubbies of shelves lining the walls. The dark forced him to be close enough to smell the whisper of dust and disuse in order to be able to see what they contained, and slowly he shuffled forward, hoping to find paper sleeves of incandescent bulbs. He took his time and eventually fingers brushed against glass. He held the small fragile thing close to his ear as he gave it a small shake, and when there was no rattle, he let out a pleased grumble before going to the middle of the room to screw it in.

He pulled the string to the light and sighed when nothing happened. Eyes squinted in darkness towards the wall, unable to see an obvious switch. He returned to the stairs, and shouted above him.

“DOKTOR!”

There was a wooden sound of shifting above him, before Medic’s form blocked out the light from the door. 

“Can you try switch?”

Medic’s silhouette leaned inward and instantly light flooded the room, making Heavy wince at the sudden brightness. He listened to Medic stepping carefully down the stairs as he rubbed his adjusting eyes. When his vision no longer stung, Medic had already begun taking off large sheets of steel from the chassis of the massive boiler. Medic’s ungloved fingers felt along wires and pipes trying to discern why it had stopped running. He stood silently, feeling a little useless that he lacked the knowledge to assist, taking in the unfinished bare stud beams in front of a cinder block wall, along with the guts of wire and pipes running through them. He briefly glanced over and the dust covered shelves, littered with smudges and streaks where his hands and fingers had skimmed their contents. Medic was at his back when a deep audible sigh rumbled out of his slim frame. 

“Is it bad?” Heavy asked. 

“Yes. It is quite bad,” Medic said with a lick of irritation in his words. “But with effort, I think I can fix it.”

Tension lifted from Heavy’s shoulders at Medic’s prognosis. He was confident in his clever doctor, knowing he was second in mechanical knowledge only to both the team’s Engineer and, when sober enough to focus seriously on the task at hand, Demoman. If Medic said he could fix it, Heavy was confident he would. Medic plodded towards the shelves, grumbling in German as he began to pick through tools. When he found one he would later need, he placed it in his robe’s quickly filling pockets. 

“Does Doktor need help?”

Another loud, irritated sigh. “No.”

“Heavy cook then. Will first make Doktor something hot to drink.”

Medic responded with a non-committal sound as Heavy ascended the stairs and into the kitchen. 

***

Heavy stripped down to only his pants and boots, his massive body sweating in the oven heated kitchen. It had been a little under an hour since he had filled a thermos of near boiling coffee and an empty cup and taken it down to Medic. The machine was wide open and appeared mauled, all manner of wires and parts hanging out from it like a gutted beast. Medic sat in front of it, slowly making order from chaos as it’s mechanical insides were neatly stacked in orderly piles. Medic’s nails had already become blackened with grease and filth which clung to the white cup he had poured for him. Medic had uttered a small sound of pleasure at hot ceramic, flexing and cupping it to warm his fingers. Heavy felt joy as he watched the smaller man breathe in the steaming cloud coming from the cup before he took a deep and deliberate drink, seemingly oblivious and uncaring to the fact that the contents were scaldingly hot. 

Medic whispered a small “thank you” before setting the cup carefully among the piled parts next to the thermos. He then reached up for him, gave him kisses, whispered a promise into his ear. Standing again, he recognized a familiar consuming concentration filling the man on the floor and knew it would be best to let Medic work for a while undisturbed. His decision pushed a proper breakfast back, but allowed him time to make something nice for his hard working doctor. 

***

Baking bread was something Heavy was genuinely good at. As a young boy he watched his mother knead and bake twice a week until he could be trusted enough to help with the labor. She would tease him, both calling him an artist, but enviously accusing his talents rested solely on his huge hands that only seemed to grow larger. All the same, she and his sisters were always impressed with the softness of his bread’s centers and the satisfying crunch of his crusts. They would compliment the beauty of the braids he would often make along with the fine designs of flowers and wheat he would sometimes carve in the soft dough before baking hard loaves if the mood struck him to do so.

When he first came to America, he had been deeply disappointed in the quality of bread that was shipped to their team. It always came in apathetic, flavorless, square loaves, with each slice as uninspiring as the last. He had, at first, began to bake bread for himself, but eventually came to the understanding that American bread was not for stand alone eating as he was accustomed to. Once he began to use it as a vehicle for more complex flavors, such as sandwiches, which he had little experience with outside of his travels, he found himself accepting and less inclined to be bothered with the extended labor of bread making. However, now that he was standing in a hot kitchen comforted by the smell of yeast and rising dough, it was hard to believe he had ever stopped.

He had just finished kneading a second batch and was setting it aside to rise when he heard the kitchen door swing open behind him. 

***

Medic sat alone in the cavernous room, staring at the massive flank of the boiler torn open in front of him. There seemed to be no problem with the combustion chamber, although the pilot light was dusty and strewn with cobwebs. How spiders had managed to enter the enclosed combustion chamber was beyond him, but they did. Carefully, he used his fingers to go over the surface, cleaning the pilot light and the small wires that controlled the electronic ignition. He turned his attention to the expansion tank and the mass of pipes leading into and out of it. No problems there. He sighed quietly. Of course it would not be so simple. The problem had to be with either the fuel intake lines or the mass of wires that regulated heat, fuel, water intake, steam output, and whatever else was needed. Standing, Medic traipsed through the freezing room, tracing the fuel pipes to the large storage tank that sat in one corner. A quick check of gauges revealed a full fuel tank. Thank goodness, he thought, the Mann Co employees responsible for maintaining bases in the mercenaries absence had at least done that. 

He chuckled to himself, recalling the base where no one had bothered to clean air filters on AC units, leading to an unprecedented outbreak of Legionaire’s Disease among the team. The Legionella pneumophila bacterium had brought fighting to a swift and ignoble halt as mercenaries on both sides of the field struggled against coughing fits and debilitating shortness of breath. It became truly terrible when some of the team members began to hallucinate, at which point Ms. Pauling had been called out to solve the problem. Unfortunately, her solution consisted of cleaning the AC units and sending the teams through respawn. He laughed louder at the memory of a frustrated Ms Pauling chasing a Pyro who thought she was a giant, hostile broccoli stalk. With a final chuckle, he returned to the boiler and began tracing wires, looking for breaks or loose connections. 

He barely heard Heavy coming down the stairs, but he did notice when a cup of steaming coffee was pressed into his hands. Medic shifted his eyes to the larger man, breathing in deeply. He could smell flour and coffee on his clothing, the smells combining with Heavy’s natural musk to create a comforting whole. Sipping at the cup, he set it carefully on the floor beside the thermos and slid his arms around Heavy’s neck, pulling the larger man's head down and pressing his lips to the warmth just below his ear. That had to be his favorite spot, he thought, the little hollow there just right for him to bury his cold nose in. Heavy jerked back at the icy invasion, then chuckled good naturedly. 

“Tonight, Misha, I will be the one keeping you warm.” He slid out of the larger man's arms, leaning back against him briefly for support and warmth. “But, for that to happen, I must fix this mess of a boiler.”

He didn’t hear the heavy footsteps receding up the stairs, his attention once more on the gutted boiler. So like a human body, he thought to himself, one little thing wrong leading to catastrophe. And that is where I come in, able to find and repair that little thing. He was leaning closer to the boiler when he saw the movement from the corner of his eye. A quick shadow darted out from under a shelf, streaking across the floor and darting under another. Medic growled to himself, reaching into the pocket of his robe for a weapon. His fingers clenched around a screwdriver and he pulled it out, holding it before him like a knife. 

Slowly, he stalked the thing, breath coming in quick gasps. “Perhaps,” he thought to himself, “If I can kill this damned creature, I will no longer have to listen to the scratching of it’s claws at night.” Bursting around the corner of the shelving it had run under, Medic stabbed downward with the screwdriver, into empty air. The angry hiss behind him had him whirling in a circle, trying to find it. Medic snarled, throwing a wrench from his pocket at the beast. It clanged harmlessly against the dirty floor of the basement as the rat disappeared. Medic remained crouched, listening carefully for any sign of the things return. At last, after long moments of silence had passed, he went back to the boiler. 

Sitting cross legged on the floor in front of the wiring he’d been checking, Medic closed his eyes and took a deep calming breath. The adrenaline from the encounter began to leave his system and he groaned, exhausted suddenly. With his head tucked into his chest like this, it was almost warm, he thought to himself. Perhaps just sitting for a few moments, quiet, would not harm anything. Medic allowed his drooping eyelids to slide shut. 

Medic startled back to reality with a gasp as cold liquid splashed onto his feet. He looked around, confused, not recognizing where he was for a moment. His eyes fell on the boiler, sitting in front of him and he heaved a deep sigh, the events of the past few days falling into place. The trip through the snow, the base, the broken boiler, all falling into place like puzzle pieces in his conscious mind. He looked down at the spilled coffee pooling around his feet and frowned. Why was he standing in front of the boiler, amid the shards of broken ceramic?

He leaned forward, examining the boiler more closely. It looked as though someone had ripped wires apart with both hands, like a wild animal had been trapped inside, fighting for freedom. “Oh no.” His voice fell into the silence of the room like a rock into a still pond, echoes rippling back at him from the disturbed silence. Upstairs, he could hear Misha moving around, blissfully ignorant. Trepidation overtook him, and his fingers went to his mouth, muffling the sounds pouring out. “No, no, no, it cannot be. Oh no, no no…” the litany fell from his cold lips as he stared at the damage before him. “How did this happen? Oh please no, no…” His voice trailed into silence as his hands fell to his sides, a low, guttural moan escaping his chest. “What have I done?” Tears sprang to his eyes as he looked in horror at the wreck of the boiler. It was not fixable any longer. 

Medic put both hands over his eyes, hiding the horror before him. “How could this have happened, Ludwig? What did you do?” He was defaulting to talking to himself, an old childhood habit that he thought he’d left behind years ago. “You are worthless, trash. You mess up everything.” He repeated the words of his father from habit, years of listening to the evil man ingrained in him. Tears began to flow down his cheeks, leaving pale streaks in the dirt and grime embedded on his face. A fugue state, his mind gasped. It had to be a fugue state brought on by stress. Medic took a stumbling step backward, tripping over the thermos and sitting down hard. He groaned in pain as his tailbone met the floor. “What am I going to tell Misha?” He stared down at his hands, covered in grease and muck. “If he finds out, he will leave me here, alone.” Medic stared up at the boiler, eyes wide and round with fear. “Alone, with the rats.” 

Slowly he stood and wiped his hands on his robe. “He knows nothing.” His feet began to move toward the stairs. “He does not understand boilers.” He began to ascend. “I will tell him nothing. I will tell him that I could not fix it. He must never know.” He wiped his hand across his tear stained cheeks, smearing the grime and tears already there. “He cannot leave me. Not now. I won’t allow it.” His foot landed heavily on the last step. “Oh God, please. Don’t let him leave me here alone.” 

Medic stepped into the warmth of the kitchen. He looked to where Misha stood, back to him, bringing steaming loaves of bread from the oven. Medic struggled not to burst into tears yet again at the sight of the man he loved. He shuffled another step forward, waiting by the door. At last, Misha turned toward him, eyes widening at the disheveled and filthy man standing there. “Doktor?” His voice was low, questioning. 

Medic stepped forward, feeling panic rising in his throat. “Misha.” He watched as Heavy slowly sat the loaf pan down on the table and stepped forward. “I cannot do it, Misha, it is beyond me.”

Heavy’s face fell, brow furrowing into frown lines, the corners of his lips turning down. The weight of his disappointment hung in the room like a storm cloud and Medic flinched inside, knowing that he was the cause of all this. The guilt hung around his neck like an albatross, causing his heart to shrivel in his chest. 

Suddenly, he was five years old again, wanting nothing more than his father's approval. He wanted to make that look of solemn disappointment go away. Before he could control himself, he was launching himself into the bigger man’s arms, their combined weight and the surprise of the action causing Heavy to stagger backward, nearly falling. His hands were around the man’s shoulders, eyes wide, pupils fully dilated as he stared upward into the other man’s face. His English left him, leaving only the language of his childhood. “Please, Misha, don’t leave me here.” He cringed inwardly as the pleading words fell from his lips, unable to control them. “Don’t leave me in the dark, with the rats. Please, I’m so sorry.” He bowed his head, burrowing into his lovers chest, arms wrapping around him and holding him as tightly as possible. The flow of German was unstoppable now, the words falling like the snow outside. “I promise, I’ll fix everything. I’ll try so hard to be good. Just please, don’t make me go into the dark.” His shoulders trembled with the force of his emotions, but he refused to cry. He would not be punished for crying. Misha would never punish him for crying. Misha was not his father, Misha was a good man. As the thought crept into his mind, it was like a fog lifting, and clarity returned. 

His grip loosened a bit and he allowed the tension to ease from his shoulders. Looking up at the bigger man, he smiled tentatively. “I could not fix it.” The words in English again, aware that Misha’s German was poor. “It is broken beyond repair.” Not a lie, but no need to tell him that the boiler was unfixable because he had rendered it beyond repair. He stepped back and straightened his clothing, looking down at his soiled hands, burying them in his pockets to hide the fine trembling. He fought to regain control. 

“I should probably take a bath now.” He glanced up at the large Russian, then away, wanting out of the room, away from that piercing stare. “I’m sure that I smell terrible.” He tried for a chuckle, but it came out sounding wrong. He turned away from Heavy, hiding his tear reddened eyes, hoping against hope that the larger man would forget that this ever happened. 

Medic was thankful that the hot water heater and the boiler were two separate units in this building. He groaned in pleasure as the steaming water filled the bathroom with clouds, warming the air in the small room to something close to tolerable. He was sitting on the toilet, taking his socks off when there was a light knock on the door. Opening it a crack, he peered out at Misha. “Hurry, come inside before the cold enters.” He held the door open, slamming it after Heavy entered. Medic looked up at him, he seemed to take up the entire bathroom. “Sit.” He pushed the big man toward the toilet, watching as he settled himself there. 

“Doktor.” Heavy glanced at him, then away, fingers twisting in his lap the way they did when the man was nervous. “About earlier…”

Medic frowned and stepped toward him. He slid his hand over the larger man’s face, tilting it up and leaning down to brush a kiss against his lips. “Let’s not talk about earlier. Let’s not talk, liebe.” He brought the other man’s hands up to rest on his hips, feeling himself growing as they brushed over his flanks. “Let’s go under the water, mein Bulle. I need you, on me and in me. I need you now.” His lips teased over Heavy’s earlobe, driving him to distraction. His lips curved up in a smile as his fingers began to unbutton Heavy’s shirt. Large hands were on his body, stroking him in the steaming room. He moaned out loud, knowing that his noises drove the bigger man insane. When Heavy’s shirt came off and he stood, kicking off his pants and herding Medic toward the shower, Medic allowed himself a faint sigh of relief. He knew the big man. After this, all he would want would be food and sleep. There would be no talk of ‘earlier’, and no need for him to explain what he had said during his moment of weakness. He wasn’t sure he could explain it, he thought to himself. Then, his chest was pushed against cold tile and his lover's hands were parting his cheeks and he did not think any more.


	3. Day Three: Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a collaboration between Daoinhe and Distasty. Kudos, comments and criticism are gratefully welcome!

******Day Three*****

Heavy woke to darkness, still feeling drowsy but overly satisfied. His hand shifted over the mattress next to him, surprised when, instead of the warmth of skin, he felt only empty cold fabric where his doctor should have been.

"Doktor?" He spoke out to no one, eyes shifted towards the open door of the bathroom, not surprised when he didn't get a response. He laid back down for a moment, taking a deep long breath. He was alone.

He stretched, flinching at the whisper of a cramp that tried to take hold of one of his legs, swearing as the limb went limp to stop the onset. He licked at his lips, grimacing at how dry and cracked they were. His body must be parched, he reasoned, recalling never being particularly great at remembering to drink during the coldest months back home. Often the habit left him feeling sickly from a thirst he could not feel, and being scolded for it.

Eyes drifted to the glass on the nightstand, it’s contents frozen. Another small sigh escaped him. He would need to get up if he were to drink. His nude form slipped from the warmth of the bed, and immediately he groped for clothing in the darkness. His stomach was likewise empty, which reminded him of the bread he had baked for the both of them and the dinner they had missed. 

A shiver of cold ran through him as he slipped on thick and well-loved long johns over bare skin, followed by his woolen sweater and socks. It would be enough to allow him comfort from the frigid base as he went to the kitchen. 

Everything was quiet as he entered the hall and Heavy did not much care for that. All of his life, he had been surrounded by people, by their smells and their loudness. The laughter of his sisters when times were good, or the collective sound of suffering and poverty of prison when times had been bad...no matter where life had landed him, human contact had been inescapable, with privacy being a hard-won commodity. He remembered leaving on a plane for America on contract, being nervous as he had never flown before, but finding solace in the noise of people around him until the rocking and the drone of the vehicle allowed for uneven sleep.

Half a day later, he had landed in California and that too had been boisterous and crowded, and like always, people around him parted like the sea to the bow of a ship as he walked through the crowd, two heads taller than those around him. No one dared speak to him, but this was common and expected. Just having others around was enough. He did not need anything more intimate than that. He had gotten into a taxi, giving the driver little else than a nod and the address to the hotel on a small piece of paper as he folded himself to fit in the back of the car. His eyes were wide at the brightness of California, temple sweating as they drove. He looked from the cab window with wide, eager eyes. The clean streets, the pretty girls in bright colored dresses, and later, when the driver took a route near the ocean, families smiling in swimsuits, blankets and food, their bare skin looking tan and healthy in the sun as they happily headed to spend the afternoon at a crowded warm-water beach. 

It was bewildering. Foreign. His knuckles slowly turned to whitened caps on his fists as they traveled. They passed a Cadillac, its brand new pink paint glistening on one of its fins before it was gone and replaced with something else just as befuddling. A restaurant in the shape of a castle, paintings larger than the plane he had just flown in advertising benign things like toothpaste and candy. Manicured lawns with elaborate iron gates, palms towering over them like pompous spiked watchtowers. It was all opulence. Excess and oddness. He swallowed hard as his brain tried to process so many people living for pleasure and not survival in this weird country.

He felt conflicted and oddly tender. His boots still had snow when he had left the cabin that RED had provided funds for him and his family to build, the blisters of his lack luster carpentry just beginning to fade. They had smarted when he had grasped at his mother’s tattered coarse shawl to hold her smaller frame to his own, smelling the pine tar soap in her hair that he had helped make with Zhanna last spring. He had hoped the next time he hugged her she would’ve gained weight now that they had established safety and food in the forest. She and his sisters had cried as he left, the shrill excited sounds of the waking spring replacing the sounds of their sadness the further he walked. He hadn’t been sad then. He was too busy planning, as he walked to the nearest town. He thought of the best way to coax and bribe a person with a truck that could help an escaped convict like him over the border. He had to be careful. Failure or mistepping could mean his capture and death. The danger kept him focused and for better or worse, had been his company.

It was when they were passing a small yellow house where an obese man in bright colored clothing walked to his mail box shoeless that Heavy had an apiphony. Behind him, children, who were undoubtedly his, played on a green lawn. He found the sight made him angry. Not at the man exactly, or his easy life. He could not place it.

He had been unable to take in any more sights after that, his head too full to focus. He hardly noticed that they had reached their destination until the car was still, the driver looking back to him with expectant eyes as he startled himself into action, stiffly removing himself from the car, and reaching into his pocket to give the man his due.

The hotel was tacky and small, he now knew, but back then, it had been glamourous. Tall palms and massive flowering hibiscus lined the pastel colored building, and off set from the rooms and imprisoned in an artificial seafoam colored waist high fence was a long round pool. He still remembered the sound of children splashing loudly in it’s overly blue water and the chemical smell of it clinging to the air in a wide perimeter. 

He walked through heavy glass doors, carrying his threadbare rucksack and wheeling a worn and battered trunk into the garish lobby that stunk of cigarettes. He remembered the overly long blood red nails of the receptionist but no longer her face. Acrylic claws that had handed him a brass key that was dwarfed by a large plastic key chain attached to it. The rest had been a blur until he was alone, his dangerous trip finally at an end. 

The room itself was overwhelming. Needless decorations and tropical designs covered everything but at the same time lacked purpose or sincerity. But worst of all, was the silence. He could not remember the last time it had been so silent, nor the last time he was truly alone. It bit at him. Made him nervous until again, he had thought of the fat man and his shorts, a slight rage simmering and bobbing through the fear. It was a while before he realised the anger was aimed at himself.

It occurred to him that everything in Heavy’s life had been a struggle up to this point, his existence and every move at worse, dangerous, and best, an inconvenience to himself and his family. Living had become heartache that had built up into a horned and hardened scab that this new alien place had snagged and torn at. 

He thought back to his family crying in his absence and of his mother, worrying over her son being sent to a country that hated his own. She had told him there was no shame in returning if things got bad, that they would endure regardless of the money like they always had.

He had fled to safety and abandoned his family and the thought made him feel sick.

He was then hit with the worst homesickness he had ever felt. He hated himself and felt shame that he had not thought to fight to take them all with him.

At the large window, covered in thick blackening curtains with tropical patterns was an air conditioner rumbling out cooler air. There had been instructions taped haphazardly on how to work the machine, and thanks to them, he was able to turn it on full, the cold draft mingling with the sweat that coated him from head to toe. He sighed, walking to his rucksack where he rummaged until he found the bar of coarse and ugly brown-green pine soap he was hunting for.

He sat on the carpeted floor within full blast of the air conditioner, the cold whipping around him while every now and again, taking a deep breath of the pine tar soap to help build an illusion of home and block out his homesickness. It had been lonely and childish looking back on it, but it was the only thing that seemed to soothe him that first difficult night. It was another day before RED sent someone to collect him, and after that, it wasn’t often that he had to deal with lingering silence or a lack of company.

The whole of RED was like a home to him. A clan of brothers he was now blessed to know and have. It was a clumsy, awkward group. They often fought, and were sometimes angry at one another for ridiculous reasons, but even with its many problems he could not deny he cared for the lot of them. It was still a little surprising that he found love so readily, but then, Ludwig was a hard man not to at least admire.

He was unquestionably the most ill prepared for battle, and resorted to using his team mates both like armor while also wielding their strength like great weapons against seemingly impossible odds. He fought armed with little more than a sharp saw and a solid trust that whomever he ran with wouldn’t let him down and as lonely as Heavy was, he quickly fell hard. When his protectiveness slowly became deeper, it didn’t go unnoticed, and still he couldn’t help but grin when his doctor had gotten tired of his childish, nervous pining. It started with a cheeky kiss and that was all the permission he needed to unleash an ocean of repressed love that Ludwig had taken in stride. 

Heavy stopped his reminiscing at the sight of orange flickering light coming from underneath a closed door. He knocked tentatively before a hand touched the surprisingly warm metal of the knob before he’s turning it. He walked into the room which was illuminated by the soft color of flame.

Heavy took in the large room. There were sofas and large armchairs facing a darkened television, several bookcases laden neatly with various books, a small wooden table with chairs placed upside down, seats resting on the table most likely from a previous cleaning of the floor. And most impressively, there was a large dip into the ground, a circular structure that Heavy knew from magazines on homes he would read to improve his English. They called it a “conversation pit” if he recalled correctly, and in the middle of it, a free standing fire pit that Medic had opened and was feeding firewood into.

“Doktor has done good finding and making room warm.” Heavy spoke out quietly, and Medic turned, a smile on his illuminated face. 

“Yes. I am quite happy it is without a more conventional fireplace.” He pointed to the metal tube that led into brick when it entered the ceiling. “The whole of this radiates heat. Much like an old wood burning stove. Be careful not to touch the metal while it is lit, unless you wish to get burnt.” Medic added, sounding paternal in his warning.

Heavy nodded, removing his sweater before he walked down the steps into the dip, feet touching stone tiles already pleasantly warmed from Medic’s fire. He sat before he lounged, the cushions and the fire making Heavy feel comfortable and drowsy. 

“Has Doktor eaten?” He asked, an arm resting on his middle as he shut his eyes. 

“Not yet. But I have been in the kitchen for supplies already. Sandwiches, I fear. Would you like to eat by the fire or at the table?” he asked as he stood, Heavy’s hand shooting to catch Medic’s wrist, where he cheekily pulled the older man down on top of him in spite of his unenthusiastic protests. He held him against his body, taking in the odor of soot and wood clinging to his skin and clothes. He rumbles out a small noise of agreement at his smell before holding him a little too tightly that is met with a slight titter of laughter before the embrace is being returned.

If RED felt like his home, then Medic was the blazing hearth at its center, allowing him life and relief. He felt light in the head and heavy in his heart. How could it be possible Heavy was such a fortunate man?

***

Medic protested as Heavy pulled him down onto his warm lap and folded strong arms around him, but inside he was jubilant. He did not let the bigger man know, but his words of praise were going through his head over and over again, a continuous loop of affirmation. “Doktor has done good. Doktor has done good.” Medic giggled a bit and allowed himself the luxury of running fingers over Heavy’s stubbled cheek, leaning in and nibbling at his neck. “I thought you would want to eat, mein Bulle. Not lounge around here and let all the food go to waste.”

He laughed as Heavy reluctantly sat him aside, going to explore the sandwich components that Medic had assembled. It warmed Heavy inside to see the loaf of bread he’d baked yesterday, brought in favor of the flat American loaves of tastelessness. Truly, the Doktor loved him. 

Medic sat at the table and began assembling a sandwich with all the care and attention he paid to everything else in his life. The cold cuts had to be just so, all even and aligned with the slices, the cheese placed just so, the mayonnaise spread to an even 1/8th inch across the entire top slice. Compared to Heavy’s massive creation on the other side of the table, his sandwich was a testament to order. Medic took a bite and looked up at the other man. “Today I would like to move the medigun and a gurney into this room. I feel that we should try to continue as though everything is normal. I came here to study the adrenal gland, and I refuse to allow a bit of cold to stop me.” He smiled. “Especially now that we have found a warm place to set up.”

He watched as Heavy sighed and chewed. The look the bigger man was giving him around his mouthful of food was a combination of irritation and resignation. “I will help you move things, but then, we find wood to keep fire going all night.” 

Medic frowned. “If we do that, how will I have time to experiment?”

“Will have time. I promise.” 

Medic nodded and bit into his sandwich again. It would do no good to argue with the bigger man, Heavy could be so obstinate when he chose. “Fine.” The word was curt and unhappy, he could hear the pout in his voice. “We do this your way.” 

Later, he thought, there would be time later. It didn’t take long to finish the food, but when Heavy wanted to return to their room and get more clothing, Medic was certain he was just doing it to put off the real work of the day. He sat on the sofa, staring into the glowing fire pit, watching the flames lick and burn their way through the wood he’d collected that morning. He groaned in frustration, every minute that Heavy was not helping was a minute lost. Finally, he stood. 

When he turned, Medic swore that he saw something dark run under the table. He hissed under his breath, body going on alert instantly. Backing closer to the fire pit, he groped through the pile of wood sitting there, finding a piece that fit nicely into his hand. He hefted it experimentally. Good balance, for a piece of wood. Slowly, he approached the table, eyes wide and body trembling slightly. He would destroy this rat, and then the scratching and tension would be gone. He and Heavy could enjoy themselves on this little pseudo vacation. 

He bent over slowly, peering under the table. Nothing. His eyes traced the most logical path for a rat. Stalking forward, he looked under the next table, and the next. Suddenly, there was a scratching noise in the corner. Medic ran over there, brandishing his wood. Nothing. Bare carpet, no place for it to have gone. He bent closer to the wainscotting, checking it for holes. Nothing. Following the wainscotting, he began a slow circuit of the room, muscles tense, senses in hyperdrive. He was nearly to the door when the noise came from behind him. Medic whirled, looking for the damned thing. He could not find it anywhere. He was starting to relax a bit when there was a loud click behind him. Medic whirled, raising the piece of wood like a club. His eyes registered Heavy’s shocked face before his body could stop his reaction, and the wood began it’s downswing. Medic closed his eyes.

Heavy caught the brunt of the blow on a hastily raised forearm, feeling the length of wood scratch down it, abrading skin. He hissed and twisted his hand, catching the wood in his palm and ripping it from Medic’s hand. “What is the meaning of this?” His voice was like thunder in the room. 

Medic opened his eyes and stared at Heavy. His gaze went to the drops of blood welling from the big man’s arm and he began to apologize profusely, his tongue taking on a life of its own. “I’m so sorry, mein Bulle. So sorry. I thought you were…” He stopped talking, taking a step back. How in hell was he going to explain this to Heavy?

Finally he reached out and took the bigger man’s arm, peering at the blood welling through tears in the fabric of his shirt. “Let us go to the clinic and I will treat this. I did not mean for it to happen. I am sorry.” He looked up at Heavy, allowing the sorrow to show in his face. 

Heavy sighed and tossed the stick of wood back onto the pile by the fire. “It is fine, Doktor. A scratch, nothing more. I should not have startled you. I am sorry.”

Medic nodded and, taking Heavy’s hand in his, led him through the icy halls to the infirmary. The first step out of the warmth of the rec room was a chilling blast on his body, every step thereafter, he could feel the heat leaching from his bones. By the time they made it to the infirmary, he was shivering with cold. 

Quickly he cleaned Heavy’s abrasion with a bit of peroxide and wrapped it, then gathering the things he thought he would need for his experiment, he watched as Heavy lay the large, semi portable medigun on the gurney they would use. “Be careful!” he admonished, earning another look of ire from the bigger man. 

Medic ignored the look, his medigun was his livelihood. He started back to the warmth of the rec room, Heavy following with the gurney. Once there, Medic sat several small vials on the hearth and picked at the remains of the sandwich contents. 

Heavy, arriving with the gurney, walked to one of the vials and picked it up, staring at the frozen contents inside. “What is this, Doktor?” His voice was curious, he swirled the vial gently in his large fingers, watching the slushy liquid slowly respond to his movements.

“Adrenaline. I will inject you with the contents, while monitoring your adrenal glands for a response. This will allow me to judge the effect of adrenaline on your body and, hopefully, allow me to infuse the medigun fluid with adrenaline.” Taking the vial from Heavy’s hand, he set it back on the hearth. 

“But is frozen. This is not good thing, right?” Heavy looked concerned.

“Do not worry, mein freund. It will not harm the medicine.” He turned the vial, making certain that the tiny print saying ‘Store between 60 to 90 degrees F’ was facing away from them both. Medic turned back to the table, hoping that Heavy would not see the uncertainty in his eyes. Medicine, no matter what type, needed to be kept at a certain temperature to prevent changes on the molecular level. He truly hoped the adrenaline vials hadn’t been frozen long enough to affect them adversely. However, this was too important to put off while waiting for a new supply of medications to arrive. That could take months. Medic sighed and popped an olive in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. How bad could it be, that the medicine had frozen? It had only been for a few hours, right? Only, he thought hard, 24 maybe? Taking a deep breath, he turned and offered Misha an olive. The bigger man accepted the treat, popping it into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. 

Medic began to set up his instruments, pushing the gurney closer to a table to allow easier access. He pretended to drop something, going to hands and knees to look under the table, making certain there were no rats lurking under there. Finally standing and brushing off his pants, he smiled at Heavy. “I think we are ready to begin, Misha. If you would just lie down here…” He gestured to the table. 

“Not ready, Doktor. We must find more wood for fire. Too cold to go outside at night if supplies run low. Will freeze if fire dies in the night. Go to sleep, never wake up. Has seen this in Russia.” The big man sighed. “We go to room, get winter gear. Get wood. Then Doktor can cut Heavy. Only then.”

Medic could feel a frown crossing his face but he tried to smooth it away with a hand. He knew that what Misha was saying made sense, but he wanted to experiment. Not haul wood. Finally he pulled his hand from his face. “Fine. We get wood, then we do this. No more putting it off.” He muttered under his breath, suddenly glad that Misha’s grasp of German was rudimentary at best. Following the other man to their room, he collected his gear and dragged the heavy trunk back to the warmth of the rec room. Heavy followed soon after, navigating the mattress they’d shared the night before through the narrow hallways. He smiled at Medic as he lay it down on the floor near the fire pit. “For later. Does not want Doktor sleeping on cold ground.” 

Medic felt the little knot of resentment inside himself give way. How could he stay angry at this man who always put his well being first? Closing the gap between them, he pulled Misha’s head down and kissed him deeply. “Let’s go find some wood, shall we?” Smiling, he followed the larger man out into the snow.


	4. Day Three: Evening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a collaboration between Daoinhe and Distasty. Kudos, comments and criticism are gratefully welcome!

Finally, it was time to experiment. Medic had hauled wood for hours, in and out of the cold, until Heavy was satisfied that they would make it through the night. Then, he had watched with equal parts amusement and amaze as the man had dug out a dutch oven and prepared a stew to sit in the coals and cook. Finding a coffee pot to sit in the coals had been a boon even he had not been able to complain about. He was looking forward to a wonderful meal of stew and hot coffee when the experiment was complete. 

Helping Heavy onto the gurney, he’d quickly applied a tourniquet and injected him with the now thawed liquid in the little vial. Training the medigun on him had been the work of a moment, cutting into him and finding the adrenal glands a moment more. Heavy had described what he was feeling as the adrenaline worked its way through his system, the jitters, the feeling of invulnerability, the heightening of senses. And through it all, things had moved and darted about the room. Medic did his best to ignore the streaking blackness at the corners of his vision, to concentrate on his findings. And then, a curious feeling swept over him. He wanted Misha to feel more, to describe more. He wanted the man before him to be swept higher into the swirling tornado of hormonal indestructibility that was tearing through him. One more vial, he thought to himself, surely he can handle one more. He is a big man, let us see what happens when I do this… Or touch this… Or, the feeling of godlike control over his lover was causing an endorphin rush in his brain, he knew the feeling, the extreme giddiness as he made Heavy’s body dance to his beat like a puppeteer. One more vial, he thought to himself, and then we will stop. He reached for the vial only to find it was not there. Medic stopped and looked more carefully. Five empty vials of adrenaline littered the floor under his boots. Medic sighed. How had he used them so fast? He took a step back, searching his pockets, hoping against hope that there was a sixth vial. 

Heavy was a sweating, jittering mass on the gurney when Medic at last signaled the end of the experiment. His resting heart rate was 135, dangerously high and his respirations were 40 per minute. The man was breathing so fast he appeared to be panting. Medic looked at him for a moment as he sat on the side of the table, legs dangling. Sudden clarity returned to his mind. He knew this was not good. He could have killed his lover, so easily, sent him into cardiac arrest or respiratory failure. Shut up, he screamed inside his head. Shut up or he will know that you have nearly killed him. He will know that you were distracted and want to know why. Shut up, shut up, he told his unruly thoughts. He turned away so that Heavy would not see the sorrow in his eyes at what he had done to his lover. But, it was all for science, wasn’t it?

*********

Heavy was scared and everything hurt. 

He was consumed by an overwhelmingly painful tightness in his chest and knew the experiment must have failed. His heart raced & pounded against bone as air became difficult to hold down. His lungs were desperate to expel it, making his breath come in quick, rapid pants. He could also feel what could only be described as a constriction, like every muscle in his body fought to coil against themselves all at once, pulling tighter and tighter, ever inward into itself in a nauseating spiral. It made sitting up laborious and dizzying, and when he tried to tell Medic these things, his words came out in garbled, panicked Russian.

It was when the room began to elongate and pull away from him, that he had the panicked idea that he should get up while still able. It was happening faster and faster, everything pushing so far away until he felt like he was three feet tall in a spinning, gutted auditorium, causing the vertigo to become intolerable. 

His mind urged him to stand so he could carefully lie down on the ground to stop the world from spinning, to be safe from the stretching walls and his sudden loss of height, knowing it would be okay if he could only make it to the ground. He looked down to the carpeted floor, terror rising as it rapidly pulled away from him, the distance appearing to be dangerous if he were to fall. It made him shout out, terror spiking as his hand grabbed onto the steel of the gurney where it pitted and bent under the pressure of his grip.

He knew he was going to be sick, and he couldn’t stop it now. Wide eyes searched for Medic's and he tried to warn him. He spoke in frantic Russian, and even to his own ears it sounded slurred and incoherent. Sourness crept up his throat and his tongue grew thick and weighty in his mouth. He leaned over the bed, hunched to purge, and the awkward shifting of his massive weight on the edge of the cheap gurney sent both him and the bed tipping forward and over. 

Heavy braced himself as gravity won.

There was nowhere to go but down, terror cresting as his hands slipped against fabric. He scrambled to keep himself upright, feet striking against the carpet as the bed struck the ground. Still he fell, ass striking hard on the ground as the first cough of vomit pooled in his mouth. He craned his head to the side to void, his sick missing his shoulder, but still catching the back of his hand. He could no longer make sense of the room around him as his body purged, his arms trembling under the weight of keeping himself up. Outside the horrible sound of his retching and thunderous coursing of his blood, there was screaming around him, small flashes of white in the corners of his eyes that couldn’t focus any longer. 

It hurt so badly to be sick. Hard, stiff muscles both forcing apart and pulling harder as he retched, feeling relieved when he finally finished. The room slowly came back into focus, which allowed him to feel something curled under his damp armpit and around his shoulder, pulling at him uncomfortably. He looked up to see Medic's straining face, slowly realising the smaller man was trying to pull his huge body away from the fallen gurney and the puddle he had made. 

He had to help him, he reasoned, and tried his hardest to push into the motion. With great difficulty, his leaden body moved forward, briefly succeeding at not being dead weight for his doctor. In the end, his body couldn't do it for very long, and Medic helped him to the ground as his knees gave way. He was on his side, the hand spattered in sick clutching at the center of his chest as he hyperventilated. He involuntarily curled inward into a rigid fetal position as his heart began to skip and stutter. 

He knew he was going to die. 

Medic shouted orders he could not possibly obey, his voice becoming more and more panicked as he carried on. He reached out to Medic to comfort him while using the warm grip of Medic’s hand against his own as a beacon to steady himself against his death. Slowly, the words began to make sense again. 

“Heavy, I need to go back to the infirmary.” 

He didn’t want to be alone. Anxiety surged, and immediately he began to beg for him to stay, his huge fist crushing Medic’s small hand in his hysteria, not allowing his doctor to pull away. He didn’t want to die alone.

A hard fist hit him in the jaw, and when he flinched from the blow, Medic snaked away from his grip, to rapidly stand. Heavy looked to his frightened face, his jaw stinging and not understanding. He deliriously asked Medic why. What had he done? Why had he hit him? A string of confused questions were coming out in a slurry of Russian.

“I will be back.”

He was already running away from him, flinging the heavy doors of the room open, while Heavy screamed at him to come back, that he was sorry. He sobbed, knowing he would not listen, unable to focus on Medic’s retreating form through the opened doors or the sound of his boots rapidly striking the floor as it faded under the thundering of his own heart. He pushed a fist down into the center of his chest, feeling the arrhythmia lengthen. His vision was fading. Blackened spots were spreading across his eyes as his body continued to constrict. And all he could think about was how Medic had left him on the floor, curled up and shaking like a dying animal. Alone with his failing heart.

Alone, as cold flooded from the open door and across the floor, making him shiver as darkness took him.

***

He awoke with a shuddering loud breath, his nose filled with the odor of ammonia. Blurry eyes trying to make sense of his Doctor’s exerted face as his small form heaved.

“D...Doktor?”

Immediately, relief and sorrow filled Medic’s features. 

“Thank god. Thank god.” Medic repeated as he caught his breath. He wanted to reach up, cup Medic’s cheek to comfort him, but when he tried, a sharp stinging bite rippled through his center. Heavy looked down to stare at a large syringe embedded in his breast. It twitched to the beating of his quieted heart, and with muted distress, he looked away from it. 

“Doktor.” He murmured, his throat and chest burning while his muscles collectively ached. He remembered the pain. Falling. His memories clipped and jagged. All fragments in a foggy mind. He felt sore and weak, but was calm at knowing his pain was over. “I am ok. Can we take this out?” 

Medic grabbed around the shaft of the syringe at his question, extracting it deftly, leaving a shrill, stabbing pain in its wake. It made Heavy shout. He rose and dropped his head heavily onto the thick carpet, as if it would help dissipate the agony inside of his chest. He stared at the ceiling for a long while, waiting for the pain to stop. He wanted off the floor, but when he tried pulling himself up, a firm hand pushed him back down.

“Please don’t move, Leibe.” Medic whispered, wincing as his palm came in contact with Heavy’s body. “Not yet. Let the medicine work. You will fall again if you try to get up.”

Medic’s hand felt funny on his chest, like it was wet and fevered. He slowly reached to grab at Medic’s wrist, twisting to see his palm and grimacing at what he found. Ugly, weeping blisters and reddened, angry flesh littered his hand.

“What happened?”

Medic frowned, his hand gently pulled away from Heavy’s soft grip, he shielded it in a loose fist away from Heavy’s prying eyes.

“Payment for incompetence,” Medic spat bitterly. “The medicine you needed was frozen and I panicked. I put the vial in our boiling coffee to thaw it and when I went to take it out, it spilt all over me. Not my greatest idea, but it was the only thing I could think of.” 

Medic looked at his palm and laughed bitterly. 

“Honestly all of it was idiotic and I’m sorry. I’m lucky I didn’t shatter the glass of the vial while boiling it, but I’m glad it worked, and in spite of my clumsiness.” He looked back to heavy with a tired, sad smile. “I was fast enough. Your heart nearly stopped, but I prevented it.”

Heavy said nothing, half absorbing Medic’s words through the haze. He thought of Medic clutching the heated glass, boiling liquid striking and cooking flesh he had no time to attend to as Heavy died on the floor, not really understanding why he went through so much pain.

“Is not good,” he whispered. “You should not have hurt yourself. Would have been better to let respawn take me. But thank you, Doktor. I do not hurt anymore.” 

Heavy was too tired and grateful to notice how his doctor tensed, the color draining from his cheeks at his comment. His burnt hand came to rest over his chest, and Heavy clasped a hand carefully over the top of it, so as not to aggravate his wounds. 

“I’m glad you are so strong, Heavy.” It’s said quietly, the amount of fear in Medic’s words lost to Heavy’s drowsy mind. “I am sorry. I won’t let this happen again. I promise.” 

***********

Medic tucked the blankets around Heavy and leaned forward to kiss him on the forehead. “Go to sleep, mein Bulle.” He smiled as Heavy grasped his hand. “But what about you, Doktor? When will you sleep?”

“Don’t worry, liebe. I will sleep soon. I want to watch over you for a bit. Then I shall lay beside you.” He trailed a hand over Heavy’s bald head, fingers massaging at the bigger man’s temples, gently stroking his brow. He watched as Heavy’s eyes closed and his breathing evened out and slowed into sleep. Medic got up from the mattress on the floor, hearing his knees pop as he straightened from his crouch. “No longer a young man.” He thought to himself. “The music of my body is changing.” He sighed and stretched, listening to the vertebrae in his back popping like a string of firecrackers. The melancholy was sinking deeper into his soul, he could feel it like a stone weighted body dropped into a lake. Sinking deeper, slower, drifting on the currents, but continuing its inexorable downward progress. Medic walked to the leather sofa and seated himself, staring into the fire. The stove had been banked for the night, but the flames still flickered, casting a ruddy glow over the room. 

Perhaps, he thought to himself, the Pyro is the only sane one among us. He stares into the flames and sees many things, but speaks of none. He could probably see the rats if he were here. Just as he sees the spy when cloaked. Medic groaned and shifted on the sofa. The skin of his palms felt tight, he fisted and unfisted his hands, ignoring the faint pain. He had, at Heavy’s insistence, healed them, but not to the full capacity of which he was capable. He’d left the tissue only partially healed, needing to feel the pain, the reminder of his utter stupidity. The reminder that he had nearly killed his lover today, the only person who understood him, who tolerated him. And all because of some fear left over from a childhood that was a continent away and many years in the past. 

He opened his palms in front of him, staring at them. The faint red lines marked them and would scar. He wanted the scars, needed the reminder of what could happen when he did not pay attention to what he was doing. He needed the pain to cleanse himself of what he had done, a sort of catharsis in blood. Medic leaned back into the soft cushions and eyed the poker. How easy it would be to open the stove’s door, sit the poker in the coals and wait for it to heat. He could tell Misha that he was cold, had accidentally grabbed the wrong end. He shook his head, pushing the thought away, unsure what dark grotto of his mind it had risen from. Instead, he chose to replay today’s incident, to analyze what he had done wrong, how he could have changed the outcome more favorably. 

He thought to the bigger man’s panic, the tipping from the stretcher, fall onto the ground in a pool of his own vomit. He considered the amount of adrenaline he’d injected into his lover, the reactions to it. There was something lurking at the edges of his consciousness, begging to be acknowledged, yet shying away from the light of his intellect. Medic seized on the thought, attempting to drag it into the light. Suddenly, like some monstrosity dragged from the depths of the ocean, he gasped and tried to push the truth back into the depths from which it came. He remembered giving the third, fourth, and fifth vials of adrenaline. He remembered the savage glee that had risen in him, the yearning to push Heavy to the limit, beyond the limit of what his body could stand. He remembered the malignant voice whispering directly into his cerebral cortex, demanding he push harder, push further. His father’s voice, the dry croak he’d voiced during the last days of his life. The rasping whisper of the long time smoker, lungs riddled with cancer. The penetrating evil of a voice long ago silenced by a pillow in the hands of a vengeful son. Medic placed his hand over his eyes, wanting to rub away the memory, wanting to deny what he had done, and yet unable to forget what had been remembered. 

Medic groaned into his furiously scrubbing hand. He had made peace with his father’s death long ago, hadn’t he? Just as he’d made peace with the fact that he could no longer visit his mother in the rest home on the outskirts of Stuttgart. The last time, 15 years ago, she had thought that he was his father and it had taken hours to convince her to leave the closet she was hiding in. The staff had asked that he not return after that, stated that it was too upsetting for the frail elderly woman in their care. He muttered a curse into his hand, damning the man who had lost him his mother’s company. Turning to glare at Misha, he ground his teeth together, trying to calm the insensate rage he felt on remembering the bigger man’s lengthy missives about his family. It was not Misha’s fault. 

In fact, he thought to himself, Misha is the best thing that has ever happened to you. He would gladly share his family with you, has offered to take you to with him after the war ends. Medic paced in front of the fire, unable to remain still any longer. You are the one who turns down all his offers, preferring to pretend this war will last forever. Slowly, Medic felt his equilibrium returning. The dark thoughts beginning to recede, ebbing back into his subconscious like a receding tide. 

He crossed to where Misha slumbered, looming over the sleeping giant. So odd, he thought to himself, to see him vulnerable like this. No defenses, no awareness of his surroundings. He crouched at the edge of the mattress, one hand resting against the other’s throat, staring at the slowly rising and falling chest. Pulse 68, steady, strong, respirations 16, even and unlabored. The earlier crisis seemed to have passed. He would not wake the other to test blood pressure or temperature, it was enough to know that his heart and lungs labored on like the cogs in some great machine, ticking away, a well oiled synchronicity that kept the other alive. 

Medic sighed and returned to the sofa, vowing to remain awake for another hour at least, to monitor his lover that much longer before allowing himself to rest. He had just laid his head back against the sofa when he heard the hollow boom from outside. Medic started upright, eyes going to Misha who turned restlessly and muttered in his sleep at the noise. “What on earth?” he mused, standing and walking to the half covered window that still bore the ghosts of his handprints from earlier. Wiping away the frost that coated it, Medic peered into the night. 

The moon shone down on the snow, illuminating the scene with an eerie shimmer. A dark shape lay stretched across the new fallen snow, an inky stain on the purity of the snow covered battlefield. Medic sighed in relief, recognizing the shape. A tree, overstressed by the weight of the snow, had snapped and, base supported by the trees on either side, it’s top was spread over the snow. Nothing more, he thought to himself. He blew a warm breath against the window, fogging it slightly then wiped with his sleeve. The base of the tree was twisted and partially broken, sharp splinters over three feet long sticking into the air like swords, waiting for the unwary. “Widowmaker.” His voice was barely a whisper, he stared at the dark limbs spread over the snow. “You will have to be cleared away before we can fight.” 

He could only imagine Scout, in his youthful naivete, jumping around on the tree’s broad trunk and breaking it loose from the surrounding trees, causing him to be impaled on the splintered remains. Shaking his head, he turned away from the window, going back to the warmth of the fire. A task for tomorrow, he decided. No point in worrying over the broken tree tonight. Holding his hands out to the warmth radiating from the fire, he breathed in deeply, not wanting to go to bed with cold hands. The darkness outside loomed against the windows, the wind picked up and howled around corners like a lost soul. The night grew darker as clouds passed over the moon, scudding across the sky. Medic revelled in the heat, the warmth and comfort of the room slowly relaxing him back onto the sofa. He laid his head back, thinking to only rest his eyes for a moment, and was asleep. 


End file.
